Voices
by Daalny
Summary: Isobel's inner voices.


I find I can't stop the corners of my mouth from turning up, no matter how much I try I can't stop smiling. I sigh in contentment as a hand strokes down my back. I burrow into the warmth of a chest it has been so long before I felt my own skin against that of another human being. So here I am laying in a bed, in the arms of the man I nearly lost and it wasn't because of disease or injury it was because I thought I knew better. I thought I knew men! The hand caressing my back is steady and hypnotic almost like a metronome. I begin thinking of the past as far back as my childhood and as recent as an hour ago.

Growing up with a brother our house was always full of men. I played their games and while my mother took the time to instill in me the feminine virtues. I enjoyed nothing more than the conversations that would take place among men. I could have followed in the footsteps of Elizabeth Garrett Anderson or Frances Hoggan and been a doctor. However, that was what was expected of me and I don't care for that. I hate being boring and predictable. In school there were the whispers of my success being attributed to my surname instead of my skill. Besides I found nursing more suited towards my tastes.

Becoming a nurse ended all speculation that I was hanging onto the coattails of the Turnbull men. I married Reginald and he was a good and decent man. Our marriage while filled with love had more of a tinge of practicality. However, I would never go back and change it for it brought me Matthew.

Thinking back on it now Reginald and I rarely fought and perhaps with the benefit of hindsight it was because we were rarely together. True we worked side by side in medicine but we weren't_ together_.

When Matthew and I first came to Downton I was determined to be useful. For too long I had my place being the dutiful widow of Reginald Crawley. This was compounded with the fact that my father was a Sir and assumptions are always placed on me of where I should be and what I should be doing. When this heir business arose I chose to regard it as a blessing instead of a trial. We would start over as it were and that was something I had long wished for.

Mother said be careful what you wish for you may get it. Father was more practical, and said if wishes were horses we'd all be knee deep in muck. I'm drawn to the Hospital and offer my services. In Manchester help was readily accepted here it seems to be weighed heavily and scrutinized. I soon find out why, the dowager countess is a formidable woman. Everything in Downton is under her thumb. I could see the conflict in his eyes when we argued over Mr. Drake. While he had a point about probably patients demanding treatment I thought I held more sway with the possible destruction of a family. Eventually the patient was saved I remember holding onto Mrs. Drake and when her husbands heart stopped I held her tighter I think in more comfort for me. In the end I was right and while I should've felt some satisfaction I heard the small voice of cynism _Some day you'll be wrong._

I told that voice to be quiet and I have tried so hard to bury it. It began talking to me again when Downton Abbey was converted into a convalescent home. It screamed at me when Lady Cora began meddling. I was able to shove the voice into a shallow grave by leaving for France. When word reached me that Matthew had been injured all the voices in my head were too shocked to say anything. When Matthew began to heal the voices scattered to corners to regroup.

Throughout the years the voices in my head have all shouted for power over one another. Only odd alliances now and then never a full unanimous chorus. That is until today, I have just seen doctor Clarkson on his bicycle. The energy his body conveyed was that of defeat and I actually asked aloud, "I wonder what has him down?" Then all voices in my head unite and whisper _You're a fool_

I turn around certain the voices actually came from a corner of the room but they didn't I spy the table and I find I can't breathe. It didn't hit me that Lord Merton was trying to win my affection with flowers. At this I internally snicker_ How silly! Flowers won't win me over._

The practical voice in my head mockingly adds_ Of course it won't you have no affection to win._

My conceited voice agrees and I find myself shaking my head. Eventually my voice of logic decides to gift me with what I have been suppressing _He can't win your affections when you've already given them to someone else_

When I think of my affections I'm dumbfounded when I realize the first thought isn't of Reginald it's of Richard. Dear, sweet Richard who wanted me for his own and I rejected him. And why? There is no good reason.. _You don't want to be hurt _and I nod in agreement. My logical voice states firmly _Then enjoy being alone you know you won't be happy with man who sends you trinkets. _That voice is right, Richard never showered me with objects, only praise and mild criticism. He never took me on outings, he gave me an occupation. And while he may not have the eloquence of a Lord he offered his heart openly and I thought knew better. I thought I knew men! I find myself bolting towards the door. I nearly trip on my skirt so I gather a handful and as gracefully as I can muster begin to run. All I can hear is my harsh breathing and my own blood rushing around my ears. Fortunately for me he has not gotten far, I use my voice. I hoot and holler until he hears my commotion. I must be quite a sight for he dismounts before dropping his bicycle onto the pavement. He runs up to me concern etched on his face. "Isobel, what is the matter? Are you hurt?"

I have a damned stitch in my side and my lungs burn so I shake my head. His hands are on my waist holding me up and I clutch onto his forearms. When enough oxygen has re-entered my bloodstream I am able to hoarsely whisper, "Ask me again."

His confusion at any other time would be adorable but not at this moment. I dig my fingers into his forearms willing him to hear my thoughts. I rasp, "The question you asked me before" I swallow my mouth is so dry, "Ask me again."

His eyes soften as confusion leads to understanding. "Have you ever thought of marrying again?"

"Yes" I know he'll have bruises nevertheless I grip him tighter, "Yes"


End file.
